The Killing Moon
by undeadstoryteller
Summary: It's 1985, and the ghouls are out to play. Mitchell lives with Carl, befriends Gilbert, and struggles to be independent from Herrick. Monster of the Week: Teenage Goth-Scene Vampire
1. Chapter 1

**September, 1985**

"Goddam it," Carl said, holding up a dress shirt straight out of the laundry. "Another one ruined."

Mitchell looked up from his seat on the couch. "I don't know why you feel the need to wear nice clothes to feed. It's a waste."

"Well, I've got to look nice."

Mitchell sat back. The flat was small, and decorated in the minimalist style Carl favored. It was Carl's place, after all. After two months, Mitchell still felt like an overnight guest.

"It's all so high maintenance," Mitchell said, lighting a cigarette. "I used to be like that. Thirty years ago."

"People used to know how to dress," Carl said. "I miss it."

"Yeah, the '50s was a great time for the gays."

Carl shoved the shirt in a cloth bag. "Oh, and it's so much better now. People are so afraid of AIDS it's getting impossible to find someone to take home."

Mitchell took a drag. "Yeah, the fear of death really does make it hard to find blokes up for getting killed."

Carl gave him a look. "Sarcasm doesn't suit you."

"I don't know, I think it does."

Carl smiled, and sat down next to him. "Really, at the end of the day, I just want to find a nice guy to settle down with."

Mitchell looked at him. "What am I, chopped meat?"

"You're not exactly boyfriend material, Mitchell."

"What?"

"You're messy, you're prone to temper tantrums, and I'm not convinced you don't prefer girls."

Mitchell looked deflated. "Thank you, Carl."

"Oh, don't take it the wrong way. I'll be here for you until this - admittedly enjoyable - rebellious phase is over and you go running back to Herrick."

Mitchell frowned. "I'm not running back to Herrick."

Carl patted him on the knee. "Well, maybe if you tell yourself that enough, you won't this time."

Mitchell stamped out his cigarette and crossed his arms. The only thing worse than Carl being condescending was Carl being condescending and right.

"Besides, I'm looking for a human. You know, you're ten times more likely to go clean with a human."

"Ten times nothing is nothing," Mitchell said, with a sniff. "It doesn't work."

"Oh, it does. There's this bloke in Canada with a human wife - clean for sixty years."

Mitchell shook his head. "That's just an urban legend. I've tried it. It doesn't work. Sooner or later you have to kill them."

Carl smoothed a folded shirt with his hand. "I thought you didn't kill her?"

"I didn't, but you have no idea how close I came."

Carl tilted his head. "Well, that's something."

"Not really. I killed three people on the way to see Herrick so we could kill three more people. Feast or famine, that's all it is. Better to just feed every couple of weeks."

"Or maybe get one of those humans with a vampire fetish." Carl glanced at Mitchell. "A willing victim." He placed the folded laundry into the basket. "It's kind of a turn-on."

Mitchell smiled. "You know what we should do? We should go to one of those gothic places in town."

"What, like... a cathedral?"

Mitchell laughed. "You're such an old man. No, you know those kids who go round in black hair and eyeliner. It's like, dark, and... like... horror meets romanticism."

Carl paused. "That sounds about right."

"Right?"

"Put on something decent," Carl said, heading into the bedroom. "We're going out tonight."

* * *

Carl scanned the crowd outside of the Noir. "Good lord," he said. "It's Christmas."

"I told you," Mitchell said. "And the best part is, these freaks would do anything to be half the freaks we are."

"It's amazing," Carl said, in his Christian Dior suit. "Absolutely beautiful."

As they walked the line, they passed a young man, walkman headphones around his neck, more outspoken than most of the kids in line, who seemed to be practicing their silent brooding.

"See, if you just do your hair and makeup like Robert Smith, you're only conforming to Robert Smith," he said, loudly. "Robert Smith is the non-conformist... you're just a sheep."

Mitchell took mental notes. He didn't look quite as out of place as Carl in his black leather jacket and jeans, but at least he could claim his lack of eyeliner had something to do with not being part of the herd.

"Oi!" Headphones called as they walked by. "No suits!"

Carl turned, aware he was being singled out. Without missing a beat, he responded. "We're all prisoners. I wear my oppression for the world to see."

Headphones smiled. "See," he said to the Robert Smith clone beside him. "He gets it."

Mitchell leaned in to Carl as they turned and walked away. "That was really good," he said.

Carl smiled. "Well, I'm sure as shit not going to let some little wanker humiliate me. If they respect pretention, pretention they shall have."

* * *

The inside of the club looked like any disco they'd ever seen, but instead of dance music, the DJ played angsty goth music. The crowd swayed, never actually pulling any proper dance moves, as that would be entirely uncool.

A young man dressed in all black, including a cape - an actual cape - swayed a few feet from Mitchell and Carl. As he took a drink of his cheap discotech beer, they noticed he was wearing false fangs, as well.

Carl stepped up to Black Cape. "I like your teeth," he said, sounding sincere. "Are they real?"

"As real as can be," Black Cape said. "I got a guy."

"A fang guy?" Mitchell said.

"You could say that," Black Cape said.

"Smashing," Carl said, ignoring Mitchell's eyeroll. "I've always wanted to meet a proper vampire."

Black Cape nodded. "There's a whole group of vampires in Bristol," he said.

Carl and Mitchell looked at each other. "I never would have guessed," said Carl.

"We meet every other Saturday. It's very exclusive. I'm basically the second in charge, so..."

"Hey," Mitchell said, leaning in, "If I join, can I get one of those capes?"

Black Cape pulled the cape together in the front and lifted his chin. "I made this one myself."

Carl ran a finger along the seam. "This is actually really nice work."

Black Cape nodded. "My mum's a seamstress, so." He looked at Mitchell. "But everyone's responsible for their own ensemble. And if you really want in, you have to get the teeth. It's the main rule."

"Well, obviously, I can see why," Mitchell said. This kid was beyond willing to share his blood, he was practically begging to be turned. "It seems like a lot of effort," he said, looking at Carl.

Carl nodded. "Still -"

Carl's thought was interrupted by a commotion behind them. Something - a pint glass, maybe - came crashing down from the balcony, but there was no scuffle, just a lone clubber leaning over the railing, pointing at the self-professed goths below. "Sheep! All of you!" he shouted.

"Oh, look who it is," Mitchell said. "Headphone guy."

Headphones pulled himself up so he was standing precariously on the balcony railing. "You all talk about nonconformity, but you look like carbon-copies!" He thrust his arm behind him to balance himself. "Have some originality! Have some pride! Conformity is not an option!"

"Conformity is not an option!" one of the goths called out in response, holding up his drink.

"Conformity is not an option!" shouted a girl dressed in leather and lace.

Within seconds, the club began to throb with goth foot-stomping as they chanted it over and over: "Conformity is not an option!"

Headphones looked down and smiled, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Maybe he was smiling at the irony of the crowd following each other in unison in the name of non-conformity, or maybe he thought he was doing something for the cause, whatever that was. Whatever it was, he got caught up in it and lifted a foot to stomp along, causing his other foot to twist and lose balance. Mitchell and Carl both saw what was about to happen, but there was nothing to be done. Headphones went careening headfirst into the floor below. Even if the few goths beneath the balcony had wanted to catch him, it would have been no use.

"Jesus," Mitchell said, just before pandemonium broke out.

Mitchell and Carl moved toward Headphones' unmoving body, along with half the club.

Carl looked up. "It's not that high," he said. "He could have survived that fall."

"He fell on his head, Carl," Mitchell said.

They pushed through and looked down at Headphones. They both knew it: He wasn't hurt. He was dead. As dead as you could get.

"That," Mitchell said, "is not cool." His mind immediately started to reel, his eyes searching for something to dispose of the body in, before he realized that Headphones was not his problem. It had been a real accident. He could be taken to the morgue, without causing suspicion or raising questions. It was weird.

They looked at each other, unsure what to do in this situation.

"What's going on?" said a voice behind them. They looked. It was Headphones. Of course it was.

After a mouth-gaping moment, Mitchell stepped toward the disembodied Headphones. "You just got yourself killed, you idiot."

Headphones laughed. "What? What does that mean?"

Mitchell pointed to the floor where, behind several hysterical post-teenage goths, his body lie crumpled. Headphones moved toward it to get a look. His expression didn't change when he saw himself.

"That's me," he said flatly. He turned to look at Mitchell and Carl. "How does that work?"

"You are no longer a living person," Carl said. He paused. "I'm... sorry."

Headphones made a face. "So I'm, what, some kind of a spirit or something? No, no, that can't be right. I'm an atheist!"

"Yeah," Carl said. "It doesn't work like that."

Headphones looked pensive. "Oh," he said. "Oh, I'm not going to hell, am I?"

"Well," said Carl, "what is 'hell'?"

Mitchell grabbed Carl by the shoulder. "This is no time to get philosophical, Carl," he said. "We need to get out of here. The police'll be here any second."

"So? We didn't do anything."

"I know we didn't do anything, but think about it. A place like this? Herrick will be the first one here."

Carl tilted his head back in a half-nod. It was always Herrick. "True," he said.

Mitchell turned to Headphones, who was starting to look anxious, in the middle of the commotion caused by his sudden death. "Sorry about... your... body."

"Wait," Headphones said. "What am I supposed to do now?"

"Cross over, I guess," Mitchell said, and they were lost in the crowd in an instant.

* * *

**A/N**: All of the cultural references in the fic are real. The story title is the title of an Echo and the Bunnymen song, from the 1984 album "Ocean Rain." For those who may not know (I won't judge you!), Robert Smith is the frontman for The Cure, known for his distinctive voice and look (teased black hair, eyeliner and red lipstick, a style that was heavily imitated in the '80s.)


	2. Chapter 2

Mitchell and Carl managed to leave the club before the authorities arrived, but they couldn't help stopping and staring at the flashing lights from a block down.

"You'd think they'd never seen someone dive headfirst from a balcony before," Mitchell said.

"A man died," Carl said. "Have some respect."

They turned and started to walk away.

"Oi!" a voice shouted from the direction of the club. They looked at each other, recognizing it as Headphones immediately. When they turned back to look, he was closer than they'd expected; as he had run up the pavement, his feet had made no sound.

"Wait," Headphones said, leaning forward as if to catch his breath, although he wasn't out of breath at all. "Wait just a minute." He raised a finger. "You two can see me."

"Oh," Carl said," Well -"

"You're the only ones who can see me." He glared at them. "So, what, are you dead, too?"

Carl glanced at Mitchell. "You could say that."

"But I saw you. I saw both of you outside the club before I … when I was definitely alive."

"Yeah," Mitchell said. "It's complicated."

They stood there staring at each other for what seemed like several minutes before, without discussion, all three started walking toward Carl's place. Carl wasn't happy about it, but what could he say? If a ghost decides to follow you home, there's not much you can do about it.

"What's you're name, anyway?" Mitchell asked Headphones.

"Oh," Headphones said. "Name's Gilbert."

* * *

They sat in Carl's flat, Mitchell and Carl on one sofa and Gilbert on the other, staring at each other. Just staring. Every few minutes, someone would ask a question, and they would talk for a few minutes, until the next conversation lull came along.

Gilbert leaned forward. "So when you say 'vampires,'" he said. "You mean like actual bloodsucking killers?" He looked from Carl to Mitchell. "You're murderers? If I was still alive , would you kill me?"

"Oh... No," Mitchell said.

"You wouldn't even be here right now if you were alive," Carl said, with a forced smile. He got up and walked to the kitchen.

Mitchell watched Carl walk away and turned to Gilbert. "Can you excuse us for just a minute?"

"It's all the same to me," Gilbert said, pulling his headphones over his ears.

Mitchell followed Carl into the kitchen. "You could try to be nice."

Carl pulled a bottle of wine from the cabinet. "He's in my flat, Mitchell. I didn't invite him, he just came right in and made himself at home. It makes me very uncomfortable."

"He just died."

Carl lowered his voice. "What if he doesn't leave? What if he decides to... haunt us? We were the first people he saw after he died... maybe we're stuck with him."

"We were the only people who could see him. That's all. Maybe he just wants some company while he gets it sorted out. Didn't you want some company when you died?"

"Well, yes," Carl said. "But we're not the same. We don't even know what he could do."

Mitchell looked at him. "I had no idea you were afraid of ghosts, Carl."

Carl twisted a corkscrew into the wine bottle. "I'm not afraid of ghosts." He yanked out the cork. "I've just never had one in the house before." He poured two glasses.

"Aren't you going to pour one for Gilbert?"

"This is a 1966 Chateau Palmer," Carl said. "I'm not wasting it on a ghost."

Mitchell narrowed his eyes at him and downed his glass in one gulp, knowing Carl would find it just as wasteful.

"I'll be in the living room," he said.

* * *

Gilbert sat, eyes closed, rocking his head back and forth to the sounds coming from his Walkman. It occurred to Mitchell that Gilbert's Walkman - his real one - was left in the twisted pile that was Gilbert's body. He could hear the muffled but distinctive strains of "How Soon is Now?" coming from the headphones.

_I guess yo_u can_ take it with yo_u, he thought.

Gilbert took a drag of his cigarette and exhaled, eyes still closed. Mitchell stepped toward him cautiously and waved his hand through the smoke. _Cold_. He crossed his arms and stared at him for longer than would ever be deemed polite.

Gilbert blinked and looked at Mitchell, giving him a start. "Are you done, then?"

Mitchell cleared his throat self-consciously. "Yeah. Yeah. Can I get you anything? A coffee? Tea?"

"You wouldn't have a copy of Marc Almond's _Stories of Johnny_?"

Mitchell opened his mouth and paused longer than he meant to. "I do not," he said.

"Nothing for me, thanks."

Mitchell sat down next to Gilbert and pulled one of his own cigarettes from the pack.

"So," Gilbert said, flicking a ghost-ash into the air, "are you two boyfriends or something?'

Mitchell lit his cigarette and exhaled sharply. "Yeah... 'or something.' It's complicated, to be -" he stopped himself. He didn't even know Gilbert. "What about you?"

"Oh, I'm celibate."

"A celibate atheist."

"I'm also a vegetarian."

"Huh." Mitchell paused. "Actually, I could see getting a lot of girls that way."

Gilbert gave him a bemused look. "Hedonism is nothing but a prison, Mitchell. 'Great pain is the ultimate liberator of the spirit.'"

"Nietzsche," Mitchell said, with a nod. "Not an atheist, by the way."

"Well, neither am I at this point."

Mitchell smiled. "So, what are you going to do now?"

"Maybe I'll haunt Thatcher."

"That could be fun."

Gilbert shook his head. "There's nothing _fun_ about Thatcher."

Carl entered the room, wine glass in hand. "I'll be heading to bed." He took a sip. "Gilbert, you can go back to the club at any time."

"Back to the club?" Mitchell said. "Now?"

"I think it might be a good idea, in case his... passageway opens up."

Mitchell stood up to face him. "What difference does it make? If he's here, the door will just show up here."

"I don't think it works that way, Mitchell."

"I'm pretty sure it is how it works."

Gilbert looked back and forth between Carl and Mitchell as they talked. "What door?"

"Isn't that why ghosts haunt the places where they die? So they can be there when it comes?" Carl said.

"It has nothing to do with where they die -"

"How can it have nothing to do with where they die?"

Gilbert stood up. "_What door_?"

Carl and Mitchell looked at Gilbert.

"You have to cross over, Gilbert," Mitchell said.

"Oh, not me. I'm staying here."

Carl winced. "Here?"

Gilbert looked at him. "Planet Earth."

* * *

Author's Notes: References in this chapter:

"How Soon is Now" by The Smiths, from the 1985 album 'Meat Is Murder'

'Stories of Johnny' by Marc Almond, released in September 1985

Quote "[Only] great pain is the ultimate liberator of the spirit" - Friedrich Nietzsche, 'The Gay Science,' 1882.


	3. Chapter 3

"The world is going to end within the next five years, anyway," Gilbert said, walking down the street with Mitchell the afternoon after his untimely death.

"Yeah," Mitchell said. "They've been saying that for years."

"But now there's Reagan with his finger on the button that can destroy all of humanity ten times over. And he's dying to push it."

Mitchell blinked. It hadn't occurred to him that he was talking about a human-on-human apocalypse. "I don't know, humans are obsessed with self-preservation."

"How can you say that when the world is falling apart? Acid rain, DDT, a hole in the ozone layer..."

"And you can't go five seconds about hearing about acid rain, DDT, the ozone layer because everyone's obsessed with self-preservation."

Gilbert furrowed his brow. He preferred to think that his concern made him part of a more elite category of thinkers. He changed the subject. "I've been waiting for months for this import," he said, referring to the record he'd convinced Mitchell to pick up for him. "And I die the day before it comes in."

Mitchell perked up. "Maybe this is your resolution."

Gilbert shrugged. "Nah, I still need a few more to complete my collection. Not counting the new releases, of course."

Mitchell sighed. "Of course."

They walked into the tiny, musty record store. Gilbert went straight to a nearby rack and started flipping through it. Mitchell went up to the counter, where an apathetic-looking youth with spiked hair sat, leafing through a xeroxed zine.

"Hey," Mitchell said. "I'm here to pick up an Echo and the Bunnymen Japanese import on order. For Gilbert."

The clerk looked at him quizzically. "Is this a sick joke?"

Mitchell shrugged. "No..."

"Gilbert committed suicide last night."

"Ha!" Gilbert laughed from the racks.

"He didn't commit suicide," Mitchell said. "It was an accident."

The clerk made a doubtful face.

"I was there."

"Well, that's not what half the people who've been in here today say."

"Look, Gilbert is a - was a - friend of mine. I'm just picking it up for him." Mitchell paused. "You know, to play at the funeral. It was his last request."

"He made a last request before an accident?"

"Just give me the record."

The clerk shook his head. "If you're a friend of Gilbert's, how come I ain't seen you before? Gilbert comes in here all the time, I never seen him with a friend."

"I'm an old friend, OK? How would I know this record was coming in today if I wasn't his friend?"

The clerk considered. "I guess you wouldn't."

"Thank you."

The clerk pulled a record covered in protective plastic out from under the counter. Gilbert popped over to the counter and leaned forward.

"Oh, that's a thing of beauty," Gilbert said.

"What do I owe you?" Mitchell asked.

The clerk looked at the tag. "Thirty-five fifty."

Mitchell drew back. "What? 35 quid for one record?"

"It's a Japanese import!" Gilbert and the clerk said simultaneously.

"You've got to be kidding me," Mitchell said. He wasn't sure if he was directing it at Gilbert or the clerk. He pulled out his wallet. "I've only got thirty."

"Well," said the clerk, "then you ain't got the record."

Mitchell gave the clerk a hard glare. He imagined ripping his throat out. It would be so easy.

The bell on the door chimed, and two leather-clad punks walked in.

"Punk is dead!" Gilbert shouted at the oblivious youths.

Mitchell took a deep breath. "Fine. I'll come back with the rest of it."

The clerk shrugged and slipped the record back under the counter before walking over to talk to his friends.

Mitchell shook his head and walked out. He was halfway down the street before he realized Gilbert wasn't with him.

"Gilbert?"

As soon as he said it, the ghost came running out of the shop, a stack of records pressed against his chest. He dashed past him toward Carl's place.

"Oh, for -" Mitchell took off after him.

By the time Mitchell got to Carl's building, Gilbert was behind the front door, grinning at him from the inside. He held up the Echo and the Bunnymen record.

"I'm going to kill you," Mitchell said, fumbling with his keys.

Once inside, Mitchell faced Gilbert.

"That was bloody brilliant!" Gilbert laughed.

Mitchell tried to grab him to push him up against the wall, but Gilbert disappeared with a swoosh. He ran up the stairs and into Carl's flat, where Gilbert stood over the stereo, pulling the vinyl out of its sleeve gingerly.

"Are you trying to get me arrested?"

Gilbert looked at him. "It's my record. I ordered it."

"It's not yours. You didn't pay for it. Thirty-five quid, Gilbert? Really?"

"That's not bad -"

"They're obviously going to think I stole them!"

"Don't be so paranoid. You never could have stolen those while you were talking to Nigel." He nodded toward the records on the sofa.

Mitchell walked over to the sofa and picked up the records. "Joy Division, Kate Bush... oh, Stories of Johnny..." he dropped each one onto the sofa as he looked at them. He held up the last one. "Slayer?"

"I got that one for you."

"Hell Awaits?"

"It's got a song about killing, I thought you'd like it."

"I don't sit around listening to songs about killing, Gilbert. Do you sit around and listen to songs about... death?"

"All the time," said Gilbert. He switched on the stereo and carefully placed the needle on the record. 'Silver' started playing. Gilbert nodded in time, caught up in the song. After a few moments, he knelt down and started looking through the LPs on the bottom shelf.

"Tommy Dorsey and his Orchestra? Cab Calloway?"

"That is a great record," Mitchell said, snatching it out of his hand.

"What are you, my grandfather?"

"I'm 92 years old," Mitchell said. "What do you want?"

"No shit, 92 years old?" said Gilbert. "You need to get with the times, mate."

* * *

A/N: References in this chapter: 'Hell Awaits,' 1985 album by Slayer "Silver," Echo and the Bunnymen, from the 1984 album 'Ocean Rain' Tommy Dorsey and Cab Calloway, popular bandleaders from the 1930s and '40s


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** I made a playlist of songs while I was writing this, which includes the songs, bands, and artists referenced. I can't post a link, but if you have spotify, just search "being human The Killing Moon" under playlists.

* * *

Gilbert spent most of the afternoon - after he'd taken in his new record a few times, of course - on a little death tour. He'd done death tours before, gaping at the sites of famous murders and such, but never for himself. He found the Noir surrounded by a police tape, but was disappointed to find the club empty inside. His blood was still on the floor in a pool, with footprints all around it and a chalk outline. On TV, chalk outlines looked like gingerbread men, but his hardly looked like a body at all.

"Wicked," he said.

He ran up to the balcony, recalling the feeling of the night before. Gilbert had a love/hate relationship with goths. He loved the music, but was constantly frustrated by what he considered phoniness among many of its followers. He liked to think he could tell by looking at a goth if he was the real deal, and not just playing dress-up - and only a small few were the real deal, in his mind.

He approached the balcony's railing and leaned over, looking down at his warped chalk outline. He had considered that he might fall that night, actually, but had assumed it wasn't high enough to do damage. He pulled himself up and stood on the railing.

"Conformity is not an option!" he shouted. Unlike the night he died, his balance was impeccable, even when he lifted one foot. He launched himself into the air and landed on his feet on the floor below, without making a sound. His right foot had landed in the pool of his own blood, but it wasn't disturbed. Being a ghost, he decided, wasn't bad at all.

His next stop was the funeral home that buried his Aunt Leticia the year before. It would be only natural that they would bury him, too. He would have preferred cremation, but, at 23 years old, had never thought to actually request it. After searching the embalming room with no luck, he decided his body was probably still in the morgue. Which seemed like an interesting place to visit, except that it was inside the hospital, and he had no interest in hospitals.

He considered going home to see his father, the factory worker and Army veteran who wondered where he'd gone wrong with his only son. He decided to head back to Carl's place instead.

When he arrived, there was a strange energy in the air. He couldn't define it. The flat was dark, but there was light coming from the hall where the bedroom was. And sounds, wailing sounds like he'd never heard before.

He peered in the room cautiously. A kid he'd known as Eddie was seated on a chair, which had been placed on a plastic tarp that had been laid out on the floor. Mitchell and Carl circled him, eyes black, making a sound that could only be described as hissing.

"Please, just let me go," Eddie pleaded. "I won't tell nobody, I swear!" In his panic, he vomited on his black cape, dislodging one of his false fangs.

"We don't want to hurt you," Carl said, plastic tubing in his hand. His voice sounded rough and distorted. "We just want a little drink."

"I don't want to be a vampire," Eddie wailed. "This is just a laugh. It's just for fun."

"You think this is fun?" Mitchell hissed.

"No," Eddie said. "I just want to go home..."

Carl threw the tubing to the floor. "He's not cooperating."

"I want my mum," Eddie sobbed.

Carl looked at Mitchell, his fangs gleaming in the light. "Shut him up."

Mitchell lunged at Eddie. He didn't just bite him, he tore a chunk out of the kid's throat and spit it out before latching on the bloody hole. Eddie's cries became garbled. Then they stopped. Mitchell stepped back, and Carl took his turn. The only sound left was the heavy breathing of the two vampires.

Gilbert thought he was going to be sick, but there was nothing in him to throw up. He closed his eyes, willing himself home. When he opened them, he was back on the safety of his darkened balcony.


	5. Chapter 5

Gilbert had been dead for almost two weeks when he saw what looked like Mitchell's 20-year old car parked near the Noir. No one was in it, but the backseat was filled with stuff - clothes, records, instruments, books. He moved closer to it to get a good look.

"Gilbert?"

Gilbert turned to see Mitchell leaning out of a grimy phonebox. He dropped the receiver, leaving it dangling in the air.

"I thought you'd crossed over."

"No," Gilbert said. "I've just been around." He shifted. He'd been avoiding Mitchell. The vampire thing had seemed kind of cool at first, but in reality it was uglier than he'd imagined. Looking at him now, it was hard to reconcile him with the monster he'd seen that night.

Mitchell stepped out of the box. "Oh. OK." He looked around to see if there were people around. "Well, have you seen a goth about yea high, black hair, may or may not be wearing a cape?"

Gilbert blinked. "Eddie?"

"You've seen him?"

"Walking about?"

Mitchell gave him a look that said 'obviously' as he lit a cigarette.

"I've seen dozens of goths who look like that... but I thought you killed Eddie."

Mitchell instinctively looked over his shoulder to see if anyone had heard what Gilbert had said, even though no one would have anyway. Two girls were heading their way up the street. He leaned against the car and took a drag, not looking at Gilbert, nodding at them as they passed.

He turned and opened the car door. "Get in."

Gilbert rolled his eyes and stood, unmoving, as Mitchell went around and slid into the driver's seat.

Mitchell leaned over the passenger seat and looked up at him. "Get in the fucking car, Gilbert."

Gilbert sighed and swooshed himself from the sidewalk to the passenger seat.

Mitchell jumped. "Don't do that."

"You said get in the car." The passenger door slammed shut on its own.

Mitchell started the car and pulled out. He needed to find a private place to sort this out. One where no one would see him talking to thin air.

Gilbert switched on the radio. "Ugh," he said, as the sound of 'A Lover''s Concerto' filled the car. "Moldy oldies."

Mitchell switched off the radio. "How did you know about Eddie?"

"Saw it with my own eyes, didn't I?"

Mitchell's jaw clenched, his grip tightening on the wheel. "You can't do that, Gilbert. You can't_ do_ that."

"I don't know how you live with yourself," Gilbert said. There was no disgust in his voice, he said it as a simple matter of fact.

"It didn't go the way we planned. It was supposed to be voluntary. He was supposed to be into it."

"Well, I could have told you Eddie was a fraud."

Mitchell pulled the car into a deserted area under an overpass. "And Carl acts like it's all my fault. Everything is always my fault. Carl recruited him, you know, not me. He felt sorry for him. I told him that's not a good reason to do it. I told him, but I'm the one whose going to get shit for it."

"What's it like?" Gilbert asked. "Killing someone?"

Mitchell shrugged. "I don't know." He sat for a few moments, and took a deep breath. "You sort of lose yourself. It feels..." _so fucking good_, he thought, but refrained from saying it out loud. "The blood is like a relief... it's like a feeling it the pit of your stomach."

"You sound just like a junkie."

"Yeah," Mitchell said. "That's what they say. I actually tried shooting smack a couple of times when I needed blood. I mean, you try everything. It didn't work."

Gilbert looked at Mitchell, then at the piles of belongings in the back seat. "So what happened with Carl?"

Mitchell shook his head. "Eh, it was time for me to move on. It wasn't what I thought it was. And now... it's complicated. I can't go back."

Gilbert sat back and drew a pull from his cigarette. After a long pause, he said: "'Love is just a miserable lie.'"

Mitchell exhaled sharply. "That's helpful."

"Because it's the truth."

"Well. Believe what you want to believe."

"I don't believe it. I know it."

"I went through that phase decades ago, Gilbert. Joy Division didn't invent it."

"You mean The Smiths?"

"What_ever_."

Gilbert was about to explain the intricate differences between The Smiths and Joy Division, but all he could do was laugh. A deep, full laugh like Mitchell hadn't heard from him before. "Oh," he said, leaning his head back on the seat. "You remind me of my father." He took a drag and looked at Mitchell. "He's not a vegetarian, either."

"That's how you think of me? 'Not a vegetarian'?"

Gilbert shrugged. "Killing is killing."

Mitchell thought for a moment. "Wow."

"So you're just going to run away, then?"

"This was the running away," Mitchell said. He paused, and glanced at Gilbert. "You're not looking for a flatshare, are you?" he asked, only half joking.

Gilbert shook his head. "I like being on my own. And I don't think I could ever live with a vampire."

Mitchell nodded. "Yeah."

"Plus, you know I'm celibate."

"I wasn't hitting on you, Gilbert, Jesus."

"And you're entirely too old for me."

Mitchell started the car. "I get it."

Gilbert reached over and switched on the radio. Mitchell slapped his disembodied hand away before he could change the station.

"My car, my station," Mitchell said, as The Crystals' "He's a Rebel" filled the car.

"No, this song is brilliant!"

Mitchell looked at him. "You like this song?"

"Of course. Phil Spector is a genius," Gilbert said. "Without Spector, there'd be no Ramones. Without The Ramones, there'd be no Clash. He basically invented punk rock, if you think about it."

"Huh."

"Just listen to 'Howling at the Moon."

"Yeah," Mitchell said, "I don't think that one's up my alley."

* * *

**A/N:** References in this chapter:

"Lovers' Concerto" by The Toys, from the 1965 album 'The Toys Sing Lovers' Concerto and Attack!'

Quote "Love is just a Miserable Lie," from the song "Miserable Lie" by the Smiths, from the 1984 album 'The Smiths' (this quote was also in episode 1.3)

"He's a Rebel" by The Crystals, 1964 single, produced by Phil Spector

"Howling at the Moon" by The Ramones, from the 1984 album 'Too Tough to Die'


	6. Chapter 6

Mitchell hadn't planned on stopping at Carl's place until he saw the police carrier parked in front of the building.

He slammed on the brakes. "Shit," he said to himself, considering putting the car in reverse and retreating. But it was too late. He'd been seen.

"Fucking pigs," Gilbert said, still in the passenger seat.

"It's not the pigs," Mitchell said. He looked at Gilbert, who seemed to be idly studying his fingernails, oblivious to Mitchell's anxiousness. "Put your head down."

Gilbert gave him a look. "Why? He can't see me."

"He can see you." Mitchell thought for a moment, resigned himself, and pulled in to park behind the carrier. "Don't say anything," he said, but before he could finish the sentence, Gilbert was gone.

The officer walked over to the car.

"Well, it's about time, Mitchell."

"I told you not to come here, Herrick."

Herrick crossed his arms. "You're going to have to reason with him. He won't listen to me."

Mitchell got out of the car. "Reason with him about what? I asked you to find the kid, nothing else."

"I thought Carl might know something. It's a reasonable assumption," Herrick said with a sickly smile.

"Leave him out of this," Mitchell said. "That's all I asked of you." He walked up to the front door with Herrick in tow.

"You should be so much better than this, Mitchell," Herrick said.

Mitchell opened the front door and turned to Herrick. "I'm not."

Herrick looked at him expectantly. "Aren't you going to invite me in?"

"I don't live here anymore," Mitchell said, before closing the door in his face.

At the top of the stairs, Mitchell paused before unlocking the door to the flat. If Carl was there, and he suspected he was, he was going to be pissed to have Herrick on his doorstep.

When he opened the door, Carl was waiting just inches away, glaring at him.

"I should punch you in the face."

Mitchell didn't say anything, he just gestured an invitation, palms out, for Carl to hit him.

"I come home, all of your things are gone, and Herrick - fucking Herrick - shows up at my door?" Carl said, pointing at the front window. "I knew you were going to screw this up, Mitchell, but I had no idea you would screw it up so spectacularly."

Mitchell winced. He would have preferred that Carl would have just punched him. "You turned Eddie," he said. "He's your responsibility."

"He was _our_ responsibility. I couldn't trust you for ten fucking minutes -"

"I was out looking for him!"

"After you took the time to pack up everything you own, you mean?"

Mitchell looked away. He hated to be called out. "Look," he said. "I'll fix it."

"No you won't." Carl walked into the kitchen, just to walk away from him, and came right back out. "I have been so patient with you, Mitchell. Herrick's done a number on you. I get it. But I don't for the life of me understand why you keep running back to him."

"He's there for me." The words came out before Mitchell had a chance to think about it.

"He wants to control you. He wants to make you the worst kind of vampire there is."

"Oh, as opposed to a really nice and kind vampire?"

"You don't have to be the worst kind." Carl pointed at him, his finger just inches from Mitchell's face. "You have a choice. We all have a choice."

Mitchell's jaw clenched, "You're not any better," he said.

Carl fixed his gaze on Mitchell. "If I know one thing, it's that I'm better than Herrick. And you know it."

Mitchell looked down. Of course he knew it.

"You should be better than this," Carl said.

Mitchell felt his rage brewing. It was one thing for Herrick to think he was a screwup, but Carl's disappointment got to him. It was the reason he'd left in the first place. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper.

"Here," he said, tossing it at him.

"What's this?"

Mitchell started for the door. "It's Eddie's address. His Mum's address. I was going to go there myself, but since I'm such a fuckup -"

"How did you get this?"

Mitchell stopped and turned. "It was in an order book at the record shop."

"And they just gave it to you?"

Mitchell shook his head. "No. Gilbert went and got it." He let out a half-laugh. "Gilbert doesn't know Eddie's second name, but he knows every record he has on order. He went in and copied it down."

Carl looked at the paper, then at Mitchell. "I thought Gilbert crossed over."

"He didn't," Mitchell said. "He just stopped coming by because you're a dick."

Carl sighed. "Mitchell..."

"Look, don't worry, Carl. I'll be out of your hair now."

Carl walked over and put his hand on the door, facing him. "I don't want that. Why would I want that?"

"You don't even like me, Carl."

Carl made a face. "Of course I do." He paused. "Mitchell... you can't expect me not to be angry about this..."

Mitchell shook his head.

"You left me, without even leaving a note."

"I thought it was for the best."

"Oh, bull_shit_."

"Well, maybe not for me, but for you," Mitchell said.

"I get it, Mitchell, you want to hurt me."

Mitchell paused. "I didn't think it would, but yeah."

Carl sighed. "I'm the best friend you have."

"Well," Mitchell said, "That's pretty sad, isn't it?"

Carl looked at the address on the paper. "We'll go together. Sort it out, bring him back here..."

"Nope," Mitchell said. "You're on your own."

Carl put his back to the door. "I'm not letting you go back to him, Mitchell. Not today, not ever."

Mitchell glared at him with resentment. Carl was judgemental as hell for a vampire, with a twisted sense of morality that made him sick to his stomach almost as much as it filled him with envy. Carl and Herrick had a mutual hatred for each other - it was one of the things that first drew Mitchell to Carl. He wasn't impressed by Herrick. He wasn't scared of him. He was perfect in that way, except for the times when Mitchell got so sick of running from Herrick that he went back to him, just for the relief of not having to look over his shoulder all the time.

This time, he wasn't going back to Herrick because he was sick of looking over his shoulder. He just wanted the pat on the back he knew would come when he did, no matter what he'd screwed up while he was away.

They stood, face to face, for what seemed like an hour but was probably 15 minutes at most. Carl had that look in his eyes, a look that had kept Mitchell going when he'd felt hopeless. A look he hadn't seen much in the past few weeks. He tried not to soften his gaze.

"I can see through you, Carl," Mitchell said, finally. Carl could manipulate with the best of them.

"We can make it work," Carl said, touching Mitchell's arm.

Mitchell pulled away, but he was aware he had let him touch him long enough to show he didn't mean it. Mitchell let his hard expression fall for just a moment, and Carl leaned in and kissed him. Mitchell hesitated, but didn't pull away. Carl had never kissed him when they weren't feeding before. It felt honest but almost surreal. Maybe it was just a ploy to get him to stay. It didn't really matter. He was so tired of fighting.

Carl pushed Mitchell's hand away from the buttons on his shirt. "We have to go now," he said.

* * *

Mitchell and Carl drove in silence, Mitchell glancing in the rearview mirror nervously. They'd slipped out of the back door of Carl's building and into the car while Herrick continued to wait at the front door, but they hadn't managed to drive away unnoticed.

"He's going to follow us, I know it," Mitchell said.

"It''s been five minutes," Carl said, a paper map spread out on his lap. "Slow down."

Mitchell nodded. "Where's the turn?"

Carl ran his finger on the map. "It's... not the next left, but the one after. I think."

They made a wrong turn, but managed to find the address, Herrick still nowhere in sight. Eddie's house was small and not a little ragged looking, but it was well-kept. Mitchell jumped out of the car first, and ran to the door as if he was on a secret mission. He knocked twice, and gave Carl a look to hurry up. After a minute, he knocked again.

Carl tried to peer through the tiny window in the door. "What are the odds this kid knows he has to invite us in?"

Mitchell glanced at him and knocked again. Someone had to answer. Eddie's mum, someone. It was their only lead.

Carl walked over to toward the front window, stepping on the shrubbery.

"Where are you going?" Mitchell said in a loud whisper.

Carl pointed. "It's a window."

Mitchell motioned for him to come back. "Don't be stupid."

Carl ignored him and peered inside, his hands cupped around his eyes against the glass. "Oh, perfect," he said.

"What?" Mitchell said, stepping over the shrubs to join him. He looked through the window, squinting. There on the floor, partially blocked by a sofa, was a woman who looked to be in her 40s, her white robe soaked with blood. She didn't move.

"Do you think she's dead?" Mitchell asked.

Carl shrugged. "I don't know, why don't you go in and check?"

"Shit." Mitchell thought for a moment. "Well, I have to call Roland," he said, referring to one of Herrick's boys in emergency services. "She'll have bite marks on her."

"So will a lot of other people," said Carl.

* * *

There was never a phone box around when you needed one. Mitchell drove, cursing every phone-less street.

"What difference does it make who finds her?" Carl asked. "It will be covered up. It always -"

Before he could finish his sentence, a young punk jumped on the hood of Mitchell's car, glaring at them through the windshield with wild eyes. As Mitchell slammed on the brakes, the kid's eyes went black. He hissed at them through the glass.

Carl sat frozen, mouth agape, but Mitchell's fangs came out immediately. He hissed back, his eyes as black in a flash. Before Carl knew it, Mitchell was out of the car and on top of the kid, his hand on his throat.

"Where is he?" Mitchell demanded.

The kid wasn't hissing anymore. He struggled and flailed, clearly caught off guard that he'd tried to attack another vampire.

Mitchell slammed the kid's head against the windshield, cracking it. "Where is Eddie?" When the kid didn't respond, Mitchell lifted him up and carried him around to the side of the car, the door still open. He shoved him into the back seat, still filled with his belongings. The kid twisted and pushed an open box aside.

Mitchell slammed the door as he sat down in the driver's seat and turned to the boy. "Nigel -"

"Wait," Carl said. "You know this kid?"

"He works at the record store," Mitchell said. "Isn't that right, Nigel?"

"Fuck off," Nigel said, rubbing the back of his head.

"We know who turned you, Nigel, we just need you to take us to him."

Nigel leaned forward. "Fuck. Off."

Mitchell grinned, and, without rearing back, punched Nigel in the face. Nigel screamed out as he hit the back of the seat. Mitchell shook his hand and looked at it. "Oh," he said, "It's been a really long time since I've cracked some heads." He looked at Carl. "You know, you think you don't miss it, then you get a good crack in and you realize you kind of miss it."

Carl smiled. He liked the theatrics as much as Mitchell did. "This afternoon could turn out more fun than I expected," he said.

Nigel spat his own blood. "You killed Gilbert. I fucking knew it."

"No," Mitchell said. "Gilbert met with an unfortunate accident. We killed Eddie. And Eddie killed you. And I have no problem killing you properly here and now if you don't tell us where he is."

"Piss off."

Mitchell sighed and shook his head slowly, glaring at Nigel. "Do you have _any_ idea who I am?" he asked, his voice rising. Carl shifted, trying not to let his expression change. He hated when Mitchell pulled that one.

"You're the shithead what stole Gilbert's record."

Mitchell bristled. "I didn't steal Gilbert's record. Gilbert stole Gilbert's record -"

"And you said Gilbert was dead."

Mitchell drew back. "What are you, two hours old? You've got a lot to learn, kid..."

"Ok," Carl cut in. "I think we're getting off track here." He turned to Nigel and spoke calmly. "Take us to Eddie, or we will rip you to shreds right here, right now." He paused, ignoring Mitchell's eyes on him. "Do you know what happens to vampires when they die a proper death, Nigel?"

Nigel sank down and shook his head.

"You don't want to know."

* * *

When they pulled up to the old warehouse, Mitchell was ready to tear Nigel a new one for lying about where Eddie was hiding out. It looked dark and deserted. Nigel pushed his way out of the car and headed for a side door, Mitchell and Carl in tow.

"This is where they meet every other Saturday," he said. "The Bristol Vampires."

As they got closer, it was clear that there was activity inside. There were voices and low throbbing music behind the door. Nigel pushed it open carefully, eyeing his unwanted companions nervously. Mitchell pushed him aside and walked in.

The first thing Mitchell noticed was how much their little poser hideout looked like a real vampire meeting place. Almost jarringly so. People - possible vampires - milled around, dressed in their goth and punk rock finest. A young woman with hair dyed black and a studded mini skirt approached him.

"I remember you," she said. "I seen you hanging out at The Nior. You and your friend left early." She gave Carl a look and leaned in toward Mitchell. "Too bad," she cooed. "Do you remember me?"

Carl rolled his eyes.

"Oh, sure," Mitchell lied. He'd seen dozens of girls who looked just like her at The Nior. He kept his arms folded in front of him in an attempt to show he wasn't interested, even as she pawed at them.

"We're looking for Eddie," Carl said, drawing a distasteful look from the girl. "Do you know Eddie?"

She nodded. "Everyone knows Eddie." She tilted her head to show off the bite marks on her neck.

Carl gave her an expectant look. "Well? Where is he?"

The girl huffed and pointed to a door.

Mitchell and Carl looked at each other and nodded. If she was telling the truth, and they suspected she was, things were going easier than expected.

They approached the door, expecting some goon punks to try and stop them, but everyone seemed too focused on themselves to notice them. Carl turned the knob. The door was unlocked. With a shrug, he pushed it open.

A young, naked, half dead girl was on the floor, bleeding. They could tell by her breathing that she was going through the change. No surprise, really. They looked up to see a tall young man with short sandy hair and a blood-stained shirt. Unlike the other men in the warehouse, he wore no makeup, and looked markedly plain. The look in his eyes when he saw Mitchell and Carl, however, left no mistake.

It was Eddie.


	7. Chapter 7

"Well," Eddie said, facing Mitchell and Carl with a smile. "If it isn't John and Miriam." He looked like a typical snotty schoolboy, right down to his loafers.

Mitchell shook his head. "What have you done to yourself, Eddie?"

"This is the real me," Eddie said.

"You think you're the _real you_ now?" Mitchell looked at Carl. "It's worse than I thought."

"I don't need those … trappings anymore. The makeup. The black cape? You thought I was a joke. Who was I trying to impress? You?"

"No one thought you were a joke," Mitchell said.

"Oh, you did. I must have looked ridiculous to you. Big, bad vampires. I wasn't a person to you. I was a … conquest." Eddie crossed his arms. "What was it you said, Carl, when I wouldn't be your blood slave? '_Shut him up_.' Like I was an animal."

Carl stood speechless for a moment. "We made a mistake."

"You did. But you gave me something. This power…"

"Look, Eddie," Mitchell said, "There are ways of doing things. You have to learn our ways, or -"

"Oh, fuck you, Mitchell," Eddie barked. "Or what. _Or what_?"

"There's a hierarchy. You can't just start a gang, be a leader." Mitchell paused, fixing his glare on Eddie's bemused grin. "Look, Eddie, I was like you once. A long time ago. I thought this… condition… made me better. I didn't think the rules applied to me."

"Rules?" Eddie laughed.

"You can't just go around killing people," Carl said.

Eddie stepped toward Carl. "I don't kill people. I give them power."

"And your mother, Eddie?" Carl said.

Eddies eyes grew wide. "That was an accident. I didn't know what I was doing. I forgot the final step."

Carl nodded. "You killed your own mother."

Mitchell looked at Carl skeptically. He knew what he was trying to do, but he feared it would just make Eddie violent. It was a few moments before Eddie reacted. Mitchell watched as Eddie, as if in slow motion, fell to his knees, letting out an agonized wail. A wail so deep it seemed to cause the whole room to shake and the air to go cold.

_Cold?_

Mitchell tried to step toward Eddie, tried to show him some comfort, when he was hit in the chest, an electric punch out of nowhere that threw him back into the air. He hit the ground, hard. As everything went black, he heard a voice. A woman's voice.

"_Don't you dare touch my child again_."

* * *

Mitchell came to on the ground outside the warehouse, the smell of blood awakening his senses. Carl's hand hovered over his face, bite marks on his finger.

"Get up, sunshine," Carl said.

Mitchell sat up. He hurt all over. "What was that?"

Carl stood up. "Well," he said, "he killed his mum alright. But his mum has decided to stay and look after him."

Mitchell rubbed the back of his head. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Tossed us right out and locked the doors."

Mitchell got up and yanked on the door. It didn't budge. "Well," he said, "this is good. They're all locked inside."

"Until she lets them out."

"And when they're let out, we'll do what we have to." He looked at Carl, who looked entirely freaked out. "She's just a ghost."

"She's not just a ghost, Mitchell," Carl said. "She's his mother."

Mitchell shrugged. "So?"

"A mother, Mitchell..." Carl looked at the door. "You know what they say -"

"That's just an urban legend, Carl," Mitchell said. "You know better than that. There is no bloody ghost mother going to take down the vampires."

"That's what I thought, but you didn't see her."

"She's just pissed off." Mitchell paused. "Maybe Herrick will know what to do."

"Oh, right," Carl said. "Let's make a bad situation worse."

Mitchell shook his head. Herrick was going to find out about this one way or another, and when he did, he was going to be livid. He kicked the door, then thought for a moment. "Wait, though... _we_ have a ghost."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Gilbert."

"Gilbert, the vegetarian? He wouldn't hurt a fish, even vicariously."

"He doesn't have to hurt anyone, he just has to go in and open the door."

"And why would he do that?"

"Because, unlike you, I'm friends with him," Mitchell said. "Besides, he has no love for goths like Eddie. Or vampires, really." Mitchell walked along the side of the building, trying to find a way in, but the place was sealed tight. He looked back at Carl. "You stay here."

"No. No way."

"Someone has to stay here, and Gilbert won't go with you."

"Forget Gilbert," Carl said, but Mitchell was already heading back to the car. "_Mitchell!_"

* * *

Mitchell fumbled with the coins as he rushed to the pay phone. He was worried, leaving Carl in charge at the warehouse, but he had to take care of this alone. He dropped a coin into the slot and dialed quickly. After a couple of rings, there was an answer.

"Miller residence," said the voice on the other end of the line.

"Shit." He slammed the phone down, frustrated that he'd misdialed. He dropped another coin, dialed again, and waited.

"Dispatch. Who's calling please?" a female voice answered.

"Hey, Jeanette," he said, relieved.

"Mitchell!" she said, "where have you been, love?"

"Away," he said. "Listen, I need you to radio a message to Herrick. Quickly."

"Of course, of course," she said. "Go ahead."

Mitchell took a deep breath. "Ok, I need him to meet me at the warehouse at..." he looked out at the street. "I don't know the address. But he'll know it. Tell him it's the place across from the place where we picked up Priscilla - not the blonde one, the really wild one."

"Maybe I should write this down."

"It's a huge abandoned warehouse, he can't miss it."

"Having a party, are we?"

Mitchell stared at a figure walking toward him, fingering the makeshift stake he'd made from a torn tree branch in his pocket. "No. We had a roamer."

"A roamer?" Jeanette sounded alarmed.

"But we found him, we got him. I think we got most of them at the warehouse, that's why I need him there at once, OK?"

"What have you done, Mitchell?"

* * *

Carl tried not to hate, even with his hateful infliction, but if there was one man he hated, it was Herrick. He hated his face, he hated his voice, and, more than anything, he hated what he'd done to Mitchell. Carl's own recruiter, a sweet-talking Casanova called David, had died at his own hand decades before. He deserved it. But he was no Herrick.

Carl paced as he waited for Mitchell to return with Gilbert. For the life of him, Carl couldn't figure out what good a skinny pacifist ghost was going to do them, and he was more than a little annoyed by Mitchell's friendship, if you could call it that, with Gilbert. It seemed awfully convenient that he turned up again on the day Mitchell decided to move out. Gilbert, he thought, had probably encouraged him to leave.

_Fucking Gilbert._

Carl shook it off. He was working himself up over a dead guy.

After a half hour, Carl was relieved to hear a car coming up the deserted street.

Then he saw the lights. It wasn't Mitchell.

_Herrick._

The carrier made a hard stop in front of the warehouse, and Herrick ran out toward Carl, causing him to step backward until his back hit the wall of the building. Herrick stopped a few feet from him, his expression changing from determined to confused.

"What is this?" Herrick asked. "Where is Mitchell?"

"He should be here any minute," Carl said.

"Any minute?" Herrick looked at the sky in exasperation. "What is this shit?" He passed Carl and yanked on the door.

"We can't get in, the door is locked up."

""'Locked up?'"

"There's a ghost."

"Oh, for god's sake -"

"Mitchell's fetching another one."

"What?" Herrick said. "Another ghost?"

Carl Shrugged.

"Christ," Herrick said. "The company he keeps, sometimes I wonder if he's completely gone."

"We should be so lucky," Carl muttered.

Herrick looked at him. Herrick didn't like Carl any more than Carl like him. "And you," he said. "Filling Mitchell's head with ideas about decency… and... _homosexuality._" He said the last bit with raw disgust.

"Oh please," Carl said. "You collect women so you can watch him."

"Yes, women."

"So you can get off on watching him."

Herrick looked at him coldly. "It's sad, really. You will never have the bond with Mitchell that I have. No matter what depraved things you do to him. He'll never need you the way he needs me."

"That's why he's always running away from you, then?"

Herrick smiled. "Give it time. I always do."

Carl shook his head. "Not this time, Herrick."

Herrick's laugh cut through Carl like a razor blade. "And yet he just called me for help."

_Shit._ Carl thought. _Of course he had._

"We don't need you," Carl said. "He panicked, that's all."

"Yes, it's interesting. He panics, and comes right to me."

"Well, it's reasonable to think that a megalomaniac like yourself can control a horde of over-dramatic teenage vampires."

"Oh, a _horde_. Wonderful," Herrick seethed. "As if I have nothing better to do with my night."

"Then leave, Herrick, thank you."

"No," Herrick said. "This is Mitchell's mess. I'll clean it up. I always do."

Carl glared at Herrick, and turned away. "Maybe it's time you let him clean up after himself."

Herrick laughed. When Carl turned back to look at him, their eyes locked.

"Haven't you figured it out yet?" Herrick asked. "Mitchell," he said, "is an idiot."

Carl clicked his tongue. "All right," he said. It wasn't an agreement. It was a resignation. Herrick's grin made it all the easier to punch him in the face, and that's what he did. Carl was more than a little surprised that he actually dropped him. He was a small, squirrely man, but Carl never imagined he'd be easy to drop.

Mitchell's words from earlier that evening rung in Carl's ears. "_You think you don't miss it_…" Clocking Herrick was the best feeling he'd had in a long time. He wanted more.

He dove on him, his fists going for the face, the throat, the gut. He saw red, but it wasn't blood he wanted. He wanted Herrick dead.

And then he felt cold hands shoving him away, snapping him out of it. Mitchell leaning over Herrick. Protecting Herrick.

"_What the fuck are you doing?_" Mitchell shouted.

Carl caught his breath. "He called you an idiot," he said, pointing at Herrick.

"You call me an idiot five times a day," Mitchell said, helping Herrick to his feet.

"I never have," Carl said. "Never seriously, never once!"

Herrick laughed. "Oh, you're easy," he said, his eyes flashing at Carl. "So easy."

From the sidewalk, Gilbert lit his cigarette and shook his head.

"Fucking vampires," he said.


End file.
